12-09-2017, 04:45 PM
Freedom.
It’s something Wound’s only felt a handful of times. Most of her lifetime had been spent curled into the protective chests of her brothers. She is grateful for them, but they did not allow her to venture much past their careful, watchful eyes. Wound spent a few years among the wildlife of Beqanna and she supposes that was when she was the most free.
Surprisingly, she doesn’t care for the solitude that often comes with freedom. Wound craves for the connection of being tied to someone — in love, in duty, in loyalty — and she knows that is the opposite of freedom. She is tied to Tephra, but for once her restless heart feels as though it has been stilled by a gentle hand.
They meet eyes across the word (“freedom,” he whispers) and Wound finds herself smiling softly. His next words keep her gaze on his face. The gentle breeze tugs at her silver-brown locks, dragging them across her neck like loving fingers on a lover’s skin. It reminds her of the larger things in life (the faeries, the dark god, whoever created the world they live in, all the gods or goddess others from Beqanna believe in) and her eyes darken with thought.
She is curious to know more about the faeries. She’s never met them before, but she’s heard of them. Part of her is bitter toward them; they might’ve been able to fix her various deformities upon her birth (or any of her brothers’ births as well). But Wound knows they are relatively peaceful creatures. There must be a reason why she has a deformed leg, itching and swelling from the sand, and endless bleeding.
“Did you meet them?” Her questions itch under her skin like the fever of a child, yet her shyness keeps them at bay. Wound only asks the single question though the way she ends it insinuates she wants more. What do they look like? How did they know you wanted wings? What did it feel like?
When you don’t have much of a childhood, it is easy to get swept up into the curiosity of the youth.
His next words nearly choke her. The water feels icy around her and the wind less comforting. She’d never told anyone her history, especially not a stranger. Wound’s anxiety causes tremors in her limbs, but she bites her tongue and meets Warrick’s empathetic eyes. “I was raised by my three older brothers.” A faint smile brims on her lips upon the thought of Malfunction, Smear, and Skid but it quickly dies as her nerves eat away her soft emotions. “My mother took care of me long enough to wean me and then passed me off to my siblings. I haven’t seen her since.”
It’s a bitter thing, a childhood without a mother. None of her brothers understood the trauma of puberty like her mother would have. Wound had watched, from the shadows, as mothers cherished their daughters. “We’re all a bit… odd.” She sucks in a sharp breath. Malfunction would have seizures during lightning storms and the world was a bit gray. Skid always had saliva dripping from his mouth and slurring his words and his hind legs were connected as though they were one. Smear had never spoken a word, had a clubfoot of right leg, and had lumps and mushy bumps all over his body.
“My brothers wanted to protect me from the discrimination of the world. I left them a few years back and Femur found me in the field and brought me here.” Her heart is pounding against her ribcage. “I’ve been staying in the shadows since then, but I want to get involved somehow.”
@[Warrick]
It’s something Wound’s only felt a handful of times. Most of her lifetime had been spent curled into the protective chests of her brothers. She is grateful for them, but they did not allow her to venture much past their careful, watchful eyes. Wound spent a few years among the wildlife of Beqanna and she supposes that was when she was the most free.
Surprisingly, she doesn’t care for the solitude that often comes with freedom. Wound craves for the connection of being tied to someone — in love, in duty, in loyalty — and she knows that is the opposite of freedom. She is tied to Tephra, but for once her restless heart feels as though it has been stilled by a gentle hand.
They meet eyes across the word (“freedom,” he whispers) and Wound finds herself smiling softly. His next words keep her gaze on his face. The gentle breeze tugs at her silver-brown locks, dragging them across her neck like loving fingers on a lover’s skin. It reminds her of the larger things in life (the faeries, the dark god, whoever created the world they live in, all the gods or goddess others from Beqanna believe in) and her eyes darken with thought.
She is curious to know more about the faeries. She’s never met them before, but she’s heard of them. Part of her is bitter toward them; they might’ve been able to fix her various deformities upon her birth (or any of her brothers’ births as well). But Wound knows they are relatively peaceful creatures. There must be a reason why she has a deformed leg, itching and swelling from the sand, and endless bleeding.
“Did you meet them?” Her questions itch under her skin like the fever of a child, yet her shyness keeps them at bay. Wound only asks the single question though the way she ends it insinuates she wants more. What do they look like? How did they know you wanted wings? What did it feel like?
When you don’t have much of a childhood, it is easy to get swept up into the curiosity of the youth.
His next words nearly choke her. The water feels icy around her and the wind less comforting. She’d never told anyone her history, especially not a stranger. Wound’s anxiety causes tremors in her limbs, but she bites her tongue and meets Warrick’s empathetic eyes. “I was raised by my three older brothers.” A faint smile brims on her lips upon the thought of Malfunction, Smear, and Skid but it quickly dies as her nerves eat away her soft emotions. “My mother took care of me long enough to wean me and then passed me off to my siblings. I haven’t seen her since.”
It’s a bitter thing, a childhood without a mother. None of her brothers understood the trauma of puberty like her mother would have. Wound had watched, from the shadows, as mothers cherished their daughters. “We’re all a bit… odd.” She sucks in a sharp breath. Malfunction would have seizures during lightning storms and the world was a bit gray. Skid always had saliva dripping from his mouth and slurring his words and his hind legs were connected as though they were one. Smear had never spoken a word, had a clubfoot of right leg, and had lumps and mushy bumps all over his body.
“My brothers wanted to protect me from the discrimination of the world. I left them a few years back and Femur found me in the field and brought me here.” Her heart is pounding against her ribcage. “I’ve been staying in the shadows since then, but I want to get involved somehow.”
@[Warrick]